The skull in the mantlepiece
by deadriot
Summary: Just how and who was the skull. Could be seen as Johnlock.


Every single day was the same. Go to school, point out something, get beaten, return home, and be a ghost for the world. Life was better when my older brother was there for me. He left me behind to my own devices. Mommy hated me, always had, and father was never present. Even when he was I was left on my own to fend for myself. I despised existence, there was no reason for me to live or continue on. I was only 6 years old, and everything appeared to make no sense at all. Or at least it was for me. I believed there was no place for me, that everything had a reason except for me. And I was just so small, and the innocence any child my age should have vanished because of these things.

That was my life. Or at least it was until I met a man when going back from school a few years later. He was a man so out of place that deducing his existence made no sense just as mine. When he turned to look at me he smiled and approached me. I only remember that he wore a bow tie and that the histories of his travels where simply fantastic.

From that day and on I saw him every week. He showed me sometimes thing that belonged to another time or another world. For the first time in a long time I felt relieved and happier than I had been. Even after being badly beaten. He knew how to change the mood. He was a funny man. He always had me calling him Doctor even when he wasn't one. I never questioned.

These encounters went on for about a year, always in the same place after school.

Or at least they were.

He once approached me with a sad expression in his face. Told me he could never see me again. I was so angry at the moment. Everyone just up and left at some point in my life. I was convinced that the "freak" and other names they called me where true; that I must be a soul-less, heart-less bastard who was hated even by his own kin.

He gave me a skull and told me it belonged to the most important person in my life. Crying I demanded a name. He only answered with "you'll know him when you do young Holmes" and with that he turned around and left.

Needless to say that I went back home shattered and depressed. I left the skull in my desk and climbed out the window. I played my violin all night long.

Life was dull again for a few weeks until I found a letter in my desk just by the skull.

It was the story of how the skull was found. Apparently in a few hundred years or so there was going to be a big war against an invasive race from some other world. I couldn't care less, but notice that it was found in one of the designed places for those who were part of the militia. That was my only clue. It was enough for me at that age. By then I was a teenager. Life went to hell after a few years of that.

The main reason I felt for drugs was that my mysterious man constantly plagued my mind. I couldn't avoid calling him mine; I've been always a very possessive man by nature. This made no difference, and the fact that I was owner of his skull did little to no help in said matter.

When mommy discovered him she almost had a heart attack. She screamed and yelled at me for a while. She said I was to dispose of him. I never did.

That night I talked to him as if he could listen and answer back. Mycroft teased me saying that I had fallen in love with a man that could very well be dead by now, that the story I had been given was a big lie just to make me feel better.

I only answered back with "well, maybe I have fallen for him without knowing him, but at least I'm more human than you."

He left my room as quietly as he had entered. We weren't anymore as close as we were. He never mentioned the skull again after that.

At least it was like that until I was 24. I had an overdose. Life was getting boring and my mind was in overdrive. From my teenage years to then I had turned cold and harsh. Nothing could be hidden from me and I took great pleasure in torturing those who bothered me by saying their secrets.

That night, my roommate was out shagging someone he most certainly didn't wanted me to know. I took a little to much cocaine. I didn't really noticed at the moment for I was entertained talking to him. I couldn't handle not being able to meet him yet. It was killing me.

My brother found me. Forced me into rehab. And took him from me.

I remember trying to punch him in the face that day. I had detox symptoms and missed miserably, and tripped with my own feet. I fell face first to the ground and wept for days on end.

It was a week or so that he gave me back my skull. It did wonder to my mood. Mycroft kept going every day and presented me with interesting puzzles that were of national importance. Even told me that he couldn't let them out of his sight or else he would lose his job. It really was a relieve to have something interesting to do even if it was bother him like a pest and torture the nurses and doctors with my behaviour.

I tried to escape several times only to be sent back with some warning. They wouldn't do more and I suspected Mycroft was the main reason I hadn't been 'kicked out'.

When I left, I stumbled upon a crime scene. Told the DI everything they needed even when I was incarcerated for the night. The next morning I could only smirk when Mycroft went to bail me out. They were freaked out that there was a skull in my rucksack and pestered me with questions even after my release. I found out that the DI's name was Lestrade and that he got along with my brother. Things turned out better in the end. I was then solving cases, both private and for the police, and had access to St. Bart's lab equipment for the experiments I always did –which were the main reason I found my things in the street outside the flat building more often than not.

Life was good, but I was still lacking my mystery man.

That was until Stamford brought to me a friend who was looking after a flat share. I had to only glance at him to know who he was. After years of having his skull I knew perfectly well the dimensions of it. The man before me had to be him. There was no question of it. I had finally the name I so wanted of the man I loved without knowing.

From then on John H. Watson was the only constant in my life. He later turned into my life.

A/N: I hope you liked it. By the by, I do not own the characters. I know you know.


End file.
